


Inheritance

by Ellenar_Ride



Series: Mending Links [11]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Mending Links 'Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: The words echo in his head, mocking him, stoking his fury:bind, block, break, bend,a restraint on his soul that calls to the prayer carved into his back. This is his inheritance, this hatred and fear and anger and untaintedloathing;this is all he can ever hope to receive from those who came before, all he can leave for those who follow after.(Prompt: Old Things (Heirlooms, Antiques, Nostalgia))
Series: Mending Links [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545610
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> Word of warning, Guide does some pretty serious damage to himself in this piece (he accidentally cuts his ears, and does a lot of damage to his wrists trying to get something off his skin) while having a mental breakdown, basically. His goal is never to hurt himself, but that's the end result, so if that will distress you maybe sit this one out.

When Guide first arrives in the Homestead, he has an outright panic attack. Seeing Sav, Major and Minor, Myth, and so many others shakes him to his core, stealing his breath until he almost passes out—it takes three days to stop staring at their ears every time he sees them. _Hylians._ He is in the presence of _hylians,_ more than he can count on both hands! Even now it unsettles him; a deep, instinctual aversion to pointed ears has been ground into him by a lifetime in Hyrule. He can’t even stand to look at his own ears, only undoing the clips that keep them hidden when he needs to brush and braid his hair, which he does with his eyes closed. It made for some messy braids at first, but by now they’re as neat and tidy as any.

For weeks, Guide watches the other Links interact, the few round-eared humans equally welcome and welcoming, uneasily waiting for someone to lose their temper and lash out. He waits for one of the humans to scoff or sneer or point a blade; he waits for one of the hylians to hiss or snarl or fall back on the feral nature he’s always been told they possess. Eventually Sav pulls him aside and asks what he’s waiting for; Guide cannot bring himself to answer, to expose himself as so biased and bigoted a creature, so he walks away and hides and berates himself in silence.

Guide sits alone by the lake one gray morning, out in the misty air, hours before anyone else ought to be up, and the idea to unbind his ears and see himself properly steals into his head and will not be banished. He shakes his head as if to loosen the defective thought, but it will not be silenced. His hands are in his hair, trembling so violently he can feel it in his shoulders, and in the grip of some strange madness he tears away the clips that bind his ears to his hair and keep them hidden. Some of the clips catch on the skin, but there was enough force in the motion to rip them free, even as it splits open his skin and blood trickles down his ears. The tips poke through his hair, drooping down with his distress, as he stares down into the water.

A light rain picks up, the barest sprinkle, but the tiny droplets are enough to break up his reflection in the lake. He can’t help but think it’s fitting—the breaking outside matches the breaking inside. Something in that thought strikes him as impossibly amusing, and he breaks into silent laughter. So long as he’s seeing himself clearly, for the first time in a decade? He rips off his gloves (his thick winter gloves, so unsuited for his new environment, that he has not removed since his arrival, that he refuses to discuss with the other Links, that he refuses to even _acknowledge_ ) and throws them into the lake, laughing until there is no air in his lungs.

He’s not quite sure when laughter becomes tears, but like a fraying string that finally snaps everything is too much. He scratches at his arms, taking his nails to the dark, inked words that wrap around his wrists; he wants them _gone,_ even if he has to tear away skin and muscle and bare his wrists to the _bone!_ The words echo in his head, mocking him, stoking his fury: _bind, block, break, bend,_ a restraint on his soul that calls to the prayer carved into his back. This is his inheritance, this hatred and fear and anger and untainted _loathing;_ this is all he can ever hope to receive from those who came before, all he can leave for those who follow after.

Strong hands clamp down on his shoulders without warning and Guide lashes out, an elbow slamming into a solid ribcage; he won’t let Gan stop him this time, he _can’t_ , he needs the ink gone and he needs it gone _now._ Another set of arms wrap around him, pinning one arm to his side, and without stopping to think he turns his head and _bites,_ sinking his teeth deep into the muscle, tasting blood. Someone howls in pain and the grip loosens just enough to worm his arm free and keep tearing at the ink.

 _“STOP IT!”_ someone screams. Guide honestly couldn’t say who, but the voice is young. He turns his head to the source, nails still pressing deep enough into his wrist to draw blood, and his heart sinks down to the mud he kneels in. It’s her. The one person he never wanted to see him like this. But… is it? It’s a small, slim figure, clearly young, but the hair is too yellow with no hint of strawberry, and the eyes are too blue when they should be pale gray like ice, and the ears—the ears are proud points, tilting back in distress but undamaged, not cut and scarred until they look round at a glance.

 _Zel?_ Guide thinks, but cannot say, knocked from his rage into a sinking pit of exhaustion and misery, and his vision blurs in a way that has nothing to do with the rain or his tears, and he collapses like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Someone catches him before he hits the mud.

~

_When do you think he’ll wake up?_

_Hopefully not before those potions have a chance to work._

_Yeah, his skin needs to be intact before he can wreck it again._

_Split! That’s mean!_

_He **bit** me!_

_That’s enough, both of you._

_~_

_Can you read them, Sand?_

_Not well, unfortunately. Hylian isn’t my first language._

_Is there anything you can make out?_

_They look like… a spell, maybe? A binding. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look very nice._

_No wonder he wanted them gone so badly._

_Hmm. Send Scribe in, please?_

_~_

Guide wakes to the sound of voices.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the lake is _the_ place for (literal and figurative) self reflection and mental breakdowns. Also, to clarify, I've been referring to this Link as Plat up until now, but I decided I didn't like that name and changed it to Guide, which fits better.
> 
> No, I don't know what happened at the ending or how this ties into the prompt at all. It wasn't what I intended to write when I sat down to work on this, it's just what happened to come out. Oops. The one who screamed is Minor, Guide just straight-up hallucinated his Zelda instead, mostly because it's something she would do.
> 
> (I just wanted to write a piece about Guide finding the Wind Waker, I don't know what happened :| )
> 
> Fun fact! The line _bind, block, break, bend_ refers to this delightful little text:
>
>> Bind the unclean hands  
> Block the unholy magic  
> Break the haughty spirit  
> Bend the sullen heart  
> 
> 
> which is intended as a prayer to Hylia and used to restrain the powerful magic Guide was born with! Can you see how much I Hate This in my Exclamation Points of Tension?! Because That's The Intent!


End file.
